


Size

by objectlesson



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:07:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wes trained himself to like it. Now he doesn’t know how to stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Size

**Author's Note:**

> More proof something is wrong with me and I’m going to hell. My original idea with this pairing was to really push the (canonically, nonexistent) complexity of Riker’s character. Wes was just going to be the unfortunate engenue. Weirdly enough, though, he ended up being the one I started really gravitating towards. (In spite of my enormous and rather revolting affection for Riker.) I don’t own them and God, this never, ever happened. They have like, four scenes together in the whole show.

Riker is huge. An immense presence, wide and heavy and hot and overwhelming, oppressive as he holds Wesley to the broad expanse of his chest. Riker’s facial hair scrapes against the softness of his Wesley’s young cheeks, and his tongue is deep in Wesley’s mouth, swirling deeper still, stealing his breath. It’s too much. Everything hurts. Wesley knows he couldn’t escape from Riker’s mass, even if he tried, even if he _wanted_ to. His fists flutter open and closed behind Riker’s thick neck and his ears pound with heartbeat and the wet sounds of their kissing. 

Wesley wonders, briefly, if he’ll ever feel this consumed again. When this, whatever it is, with Commander Riker ends and he joins starfleet, makes friends his own age at the Academy, starts dating girls...if everything will pale in comparison due to its inability to be too much. To hurt enough. Wesley wonders if every other human after Riker will feel too small. If this is ruining him, or making him. 

Riker presses enormous palms against the bones in Wesley’s back, so hard Wesley can’t expand his ribcage all the way. He struggles instinctively from claustrophobia, kissing back because it’s what he’s been trained to do, a white whir of vague panic setting into him. It always does. He always worries he’ll suffocate, choke to death under Riker’s immense body, around the thickness of his cock, the mouthful after mouthful of seed he’ll swallow. He always survives though, survives and finds himself with a shameful burn in his cheeks as he touches himself to memories of asphyxiation and ice blue eyes cutting into him with the power of enormity. Survives and finds himself wanting it, back again, on his knees and hands shaking as they brace against the certainty of Riker’s thighs. 

Static clouds his vision and tears sting his eyes, just as Riker pulls away and they both gasp in air. The world materializes around Wesley. First Officer’s quarters. Mahogany desk table. Pale green upholstery. Windows to the stars, bits of light stuck in endless, endless black. Going on forever infinitely in all directions, enough to freeze them, pressurize them to dust. His knees almost buckle, and he tightens fists in the front of Commander Riker’s red nylon starfleet uniform. 

“Up,” Riker says firmly, hands closing over the bones in Wesley’s wrists, making them feel impossibly small, breakable, dust, stars. Wesley’s stomach plummets, because in teaching himself how to like this, he managed to forgot how to not want it. Head down, he watches his own hips ripple and cant up into Riker’s, small and desperate in the frame of something so much wider. His breath gasps out of him, is sucked into Riker’s lungs. “You alright ensign?” Riker asks. 

“Yes Commander” Wesley’s voice is hoarse, sounding wet and animal in its desperation. Riker combs his great, guiding hand through the back of Wesley’s hair, tilts his head back, outlines his lips with the tip of his tongue before crushing them beneath the pressure of his teeth. 

“Mm. So fucking pretty,” He rumbles, eyes bright and burning. Wesley forgets that blue is not the color of fire. 

Every time the harshness of the word _fuck_ and all its various forms slides out of his commanding officer in that easy, gravel-rough voice, Wesley’s stomach lurches around a sickening rope of arousal which makes him weak, small, consumed. He is dizzy when he says, “What do you want me to do?” 

The words are small, scared, shaky. Riker bites at the corner of his mouth, drags one hand down the length of Wesley’ spine and stops to grip his ass, the force of it lifting him up onto the balls of his feet. Then Riker’s hand is groping beneath the elastic waistband of his silver uniform slacks, a hot fingers prodding between the sweat-damp crease of his ass cheeks, nudging against his hole. “Want you on your knees, Ensign. After I’m done feeling you,” Riker orders, pressing against resistant muscle, easing his way in as Wesley relaxes, because he figured out that it didn’t hurt if he just relaxed. 

Riker is inside of him, and he wants him there, and doesn’t remember a time when he didn’t, even though he knows it existed. His cheeks feel hot, feverish. There is a rearing sickness in his stomach longing for memory he has lost. He was so young when this started that he didn’t know what he wanted, not exactly, anyway, not with articulation, with the genius his infant, stupid self thought permeated every inch of him and made him invulnerable.

He wanted Riker, certainly, some part of him at least. To be like him, to be him, to be his...but not necessarily to hold the enormity of him in his own body. Wesley was fifteen then, and a young, lonely, inexperienced fifteen at that. He doesn’t think the fifteen year old version of himself with his schoolboy crush on his commanding officer knew what that even meant, what vastness his body was capable of holding. 

His ass opens right up for Riker, his knees bend and his back arches, his eyes slide shut and his breath huffs out of him. He knows what he looks like right now, the sweep of his dark lashes against the plushness of his cheeks, the deepening pink of his ears, his throat, his face. Narrow, bent, a violin bow in the crook of a man’s arm. The idea of all of that, his disarray and helplessness and incredible, incredible _smallness_ all lost to the mass that is Riker, Riker’s strength and Riker’s power, makes his cock throb against the seam of his pants, sticky, wet, dripping, heavy with blood. Riker crooks his finger, adds another. 

“Commander,” Wesley says thickly, mindlessly. He pushes himself further onto Riker’s fingers, knowing his insides are velveteen and infernal and what Riker wants, what Riker is risking everything for. Wesley wants to give him what he wants. He doesn’t want to be ambivalent, because he wants to be worth the risk. He wants this all to be worth it. 

Riker’s breath catches; he mouths hungrily and without destination along the line of Wesley’s jaw. “If I didn’t want your mouth on my cock, I’d take you just like this,” he growls into Wesley’s ear, breath hot and explosive because he’s not as in control of this as either of them like to pretend. “I’d finger you until you came all over my stomach. You feel so fucking good inside. Can’t stop touching you.” The words are rushed, lost, thundering with want. Riker is as much a mess as Wesley is, and it’s both terrifying and arousing. Like a bull in a china shop, the sheer force of Riker’s want will kill Wesley, shatter him to glittering bits that imbed themselves under Riker’s hide, slicking his vast, muscled self with sticky blood. 

Wesley’s dick twitches, almost painful in its heat, its weight. “Please,” he mumbles, cocking his head to the side so Riker can tongue fuck his mouth again. He endures it for a few seconds, until his legs start quaking and he can’t imagine standing under all this pressure any longer. He pulls away, lips lewd and red around the words, “let me suck you off, Commander.” His mouth is full of spit, which he swallows. 

Riker releases him, and it feels like being born. All of the heavy, oppressive warmth of being wanted despite consequence fall away, and Wesley gasps, sucking in air desperately as he drops to his knees, entire body shaking like he’d just escaped death. He steadies himself on Riker’s thighs, watching his own hands tremble like they don’t belong to him, like they are alive on their own. He presses his face into Riker’s crotch, inhaling the musky, sweat-smell of arousal, the burn just beneath laundry detergent and cotton. He licks the outline of it, the fabric rough under his tongue. Riker runs his fingers through Wesley’s hair, mumbling things too far away to hear. 

Hands still numb and tremulous, Wesley unbuttons Riker’s black uniform slacks, pressing kisses to whatever skin he can reach, whatever skin he exposes. When he frees Riker’s erection entirely it hangs in front of him for a loaded moment, enormous and dusky red and glistening, skin so smooth and satin soft over all that thick, steel power. Wesley licks his lips, thinking of the countless other times his younger self thought it was too big to fit inside of his mouth, and proves that self wrong, sliding down the length of Rikers cock until his lips are buried in dark brown curls. 

“God, you’re beautiful,” Riker mumbles, hand a surprisingly gentle weight against the back of Wesley’s neck. “Suck on me, Wes. Give me that pretty mouth.” 

Wesley reaches into his own pants, and grips his hard, wanting, white-hot cock, drunk and drowned with the scent of Riker. 

He knows Riker loves when he’s hungry for it, when he closes his eyes and gets lost to sucking, head falling into the easy rhythm, tongue lashing and lapping, involuntary groans vibrating around the crown of Riker’s dick, in the salty indentation on the underside. So that’s what he does. He jerks himself, he bobs up and down; he sucks in hard so his cheeks hollow and Riker’s thick, impossibly strong legs shudder and falter on either side of him like static on a security camera. The heat in Wesley’s stomach builds, because _he’s _doing this to Riker, his youth, his diminutive frame, his seventeen year old baby’s mouth. Rendering this great man unstable and silent.__

__Riker is already close, Wesley can tell by the spasms of flesh, the twitching, the little pre-bursts of salty liquid he swallows down instinctively. Riker is saying the first syllable of his name over and over again like a prayer, thee letters total, three letters less than _ensign_. _ _

__It’s as this moment when Wesley has the terrible, long-fought thought _I shouldn’t be doing this._ His eyes fly open, his brow furrows, and he tightens his hand on the throbbing length of his own dick, wanting to overcome his mind with blind pleasure so he can;t second guess himself anymore. _ _

__He hates thinking this, because it is useless. He is doing it. All the things it has ruined, his normal future of first dates and first kisses and first, graceless, terrible fucks, are pointless to mourn because they’re already gone. He is doing this, as he has been, and it has already happened. He wants to do it, authentically. Wether or not he wants to because he taught himself to is irrelevant, he still wants to. It is his reality. It’s Riker he thinks of when he wonders about love, when he touches himself in the shower and under the sheets. It’s Riker who taught him everything he knows, it’s Riker whose closest to being his father, Riker who taught him to kiss, to suck cock, to relax so he can be pushed inside of. He blocks out the sun, and its been years since Wesley saw the sun. It’s Riker. No one else._ _

__He remembers the one, terrifying time Riker told him, after making Wesley come three times across his lap with his fingers deep in his ass without touching his dick at all, _we shouldn’t be doing this._ Wesley remembers the fierce panic, the lost feeling swelling in his young chest like emptiness. _You can’t say that, you’re the grown up!_ He’d thought. _You’re the dad. I can be scared, I can wonder if this is right, if I’m sick, if something’s wrong with me. But you can’t. You have to be sure. If you aren’t sure, how can I be anything?__ _

__No was what he did say to Riker instead of the rush of childish terror, laying across thick legs in a puddle of his own come. There must have been enough dismay in his voice to scare Riker, because he never brought it up again. Wesley remembers the blue in his eyes, the wideness of it, sky-huge and reflecting the ocean, staining everything around it the same scared, helpless color._ _

__Wesley comes in his pants, erupting over his own palm while Riker holds his head in place, and thrusts two deep, hungry thrusts and chokes his throat full of seed. The whole of the sky, the whole of the ocean, and Wesley feels like one single grain of sand._ _

__He doesn’t think of all the girls whose chests he will feel with fumbling, idiot hands which long for vastness, for the stone-hard expanse of muscle, for hair to form a fist in. He doesn’t think of all the clumsy kisses he will fake ignorance through, all while knowing how to use his tongue, how to flick it against the roof of a mouth, how to lay still while someone crushes you with the scratch of a beard, the sureness of teeth. He doesn’t think of love, and how he does not know what it is, because love is not something genius knows, something it only _feigns_ knowing so convincingly that great men believe in it, and pour the enormity of themselves into too-tight receptacles until they shatter to bits. _ _

__Wesley allows himself to be hauled to his feet, his lips to be kissed, his hair to be worried, his shoulders to be gripped with shattering force. He doesn’t think of his lungs slowly dying, their contractions without air. He only thinks of Riker, and allows himself to be consumed, one grain of sand at the bottom of the sea, a star flickering against the infinity of space and its devouring adoration._ _


End file.
